


Half of Me and All of You

by lemonfizzies



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Billford is probably glaringly obvious but not too crazy and definitely not the main focus here, Gen, Post-Episode: s02e20 Weirdmageddon 3: Take Back the Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonfizzies/pseuds/lemonfizzies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hell is open and the devils are here<br/>Stanford Pines cannot tell if his brother is alive or dead. Mindscape blends into reality as he struggles to discern Cipher's game before it all comes crashing down</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Liminal

Stanford ran his hands through his hair in a futile attempt to steady himself and his spinning head. Despite his best efforts, the living room still swam in and out of focus, making him dizzy and sick.

_Bill...can't..._

The same words, the same unbearable denial ran circles in his mind, chasing out all rational thought. How long had he been standing here? Hours? Weeks? Only a moment? Time had lost all meaning.

_Stanley_ , he let out a frustrated moan, dragging his hands down his face until he had fully shielded himself from the reality before him, _Stanley, oh God, I can't --_

**_Tick tock, kid, time's a-wastin'_ **

Kid. A sharp pang shot through his gut and his heart, spearing him through and through. He felt like shrinking into the wall, the floor, anything to get away from the helplessness consuming him. Kid. Was he really nothing more?

_I have to I have to I have to i h a v e t o but I c a n ' t..._

Can't what? Can't believe this was happening? No, he'd been prepared in his own, quiet way. The return of his brother's mind, of everything inside it. He wasn't entirely surprised, but he couldn't deny that some small piece of him had dared to hope against it.

The longer he stood, the louder he could practically hear Stanley shouting at him.

_Forget about me_ , he'd grab Ford by the shoulders and knock the sense into him, _You can't let that bastard win!_

Ford straightened out, doing his best to appear imposing, or, at least, somewhat dignified. Arms dropped limp to his sides and he swayed, refusing to lean on anything for support. He wouldn't give Bill the satisfaction.

But then he opened his eyes.

Stanley glared him down, tapping his foot impatiently as he leaned on his cane, everything from his attitude to his posture so innately wrong that it sent shivers down Ford's spine.

**_Well?_ **

A matchstick scaffold against the Niagara, Ford crumbled. The voice, the sheer dread it created simply by issuing from Stanley's mouth. The smirk, ever so slightly present, crinkling the edge of one glowing, yellow eye. It was too much. After everything, after all that had happened, all they'd pulled through, this was the breaking point.

"Deal." He breathed, fighting to keep his voice from cracking, his hands from trembling, even, as a terrible black abyss sucked the air from his lungs once more. The world blurred again, from tears or from shock he couldn't say, as Ford blindly extended one quaking hand.

_Why couldn't it have been you?_

He knew Stanley would be the righteous hero he always was, fighting tooth and nail until the bitter end, shielding Ford when he could but, ultimately, prioritizing the kids or the Falls or the entirety of the universe, as it once stood to be the stakes, over his own feelings.

Even as every moral fiber of his soul screamed for him to think beyond himself, to think rationally, to think of the kids or the planet or to even stop and think at all, he knew he couldn't. The more he imagined Stanley doing the brave and unselfish thing, the more he realized the glaring truth of the matter.

 

He wasn't Stanley.

 

His hand, still outstretched, still trembling, now folded into the other's. All the grooves and pockets identical, a glove-like fit, except for that extra bulk of the pinky on Ford's.

**_I knew you couldn't resist!_ **

Stanley laughed, high pitched and manic, shaking the deal shut with unprecedented vigor. Ford only closed his eyes, his own hand dead and limp in Stanley's grasp.

It was done, then. He tried not to think about the impending sleepless months, the constant battle that he would, in all likelihood, lose.

Stanley grinned at him, still holding his hand, his mouth stretching impossibly wide to expose the dark corners where his teeth ended and his cheek began.

  ** _I could get used to this skinsack, you know. Same as yours, right down to the vital equipment. Feels like coming home in a way._**

Ford swallowed hard, the nausea in his throat threatening to spill over into his mouth, as he briefly flashed to the more intense ramifications involved with sharing a body. An itch, a curiosity, rose to meet the fact that Bill brought it up at all. Did he think about him, still, after all these years? The thought bloomed something uneasy and stuttering in his chest.

"Well, Cipher, you have your deal. Give me my brother." He spat, refusing to acknowledge the weakness in his knees, his mind screaming that he should've left already, why hadn't he left?

Stanley kept grinning.

"Bill!" Ford warned, tugging sharply against Stanley's grip. He wasn't going to panic, couldn't afford it. He had to stay calm, had to keep his head, his sanity, or, what was left of it.

Stanley didn't let go. In fact, he squeezed hard enough to elicit a gasp from Ford, yanking him closer, crushing his hand with a force that was definitely beyond human.

**_Don't forget who's in charge here, Sixer._ **

Stanley's eyes glinted dangerously, black slits somehow narrower but still popping against the glowing yellow,  burning through Ford's meager courage in a heartbeat. Still smiling. Still stretching his skin so far, Ford almost prayed it wouldn't split, if prayer had not been thrown to the wind long ago.

He began twisting and pushing and beginning, then, to feel the air leave him for a third time. Except this time, it didn't come back. He gasped and flailed, losing all pretense of composure, only thinking that he needed to get away, to get his brother, to get a i r. He was surprised he didn't cry out, though unsure of if he simply couldn't hear himself over his own racing heart in his ears.

 Stanley was staring down, confused at first, face twisting to a frown, then to a grimace, pushing Ford away in disgust. Ford stumbled back, crashing into the door frame, cradling his throbbing hand close to his chest.

_Go away, go away, go away_

"Give him back!" Ford nearly screamed, feeling heat well up against his lower eyelids, running rivulets down his face. He didn't care that Bill would see him, didn't care that his face was sticky, his eyes puffy, that he'd already doomed himself, probably the planet, hell, maybe even the next SEVENTEEN dimensions. He didn't care, he just wanted the one thing in his life that would have made it all okay.

**_You're pathetic._ **

Ford winced at the flat delivery, the clearly unrepressed loathing dripping from his words. He knew that Stanley was still there, somewhere, displaced in the Mindscape. He knew that his brother wasn't really saying that. He knew but it still burned, to hear it coming from his face. To see the disgust broiling in his eyes. It burned more than the want of oxygen in his lungs, more than the throbbing, swelling hand. It burned and Ford didn’t know what to do anymore, couldn’t take it another second. He slid down the wood, nearly doubling over in the process, and let the sobs wrack his body. He shook and he cried, an absolute mess of a man crumpled into a ball on the floor of the living room, propped up against the doorjam.

_Stanley, Stanley, what have I done? What am I doing? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry, just come back, please, Bill, give him back, give him back, come back, oh, Stanley where are you? I can’t, I just can’t, I can’t I can’t I can’t, Stanley, oh god, I can’t --_

 How much of that came out his mouth and how much stayed in his head, he’d never know. All he knew was that he was alone, and there was no one to hear him either way, so it really didn’t matter, did it?

Stanley collapsed, Ford not even aware enough to catch him, didn’t know until he had already crashed into the rug at his feet. He just stared, hiccupping, still burrowed into his turtleneck.

 “Stanley?” he asked hesitantly, voice much hoarser and quieter than he’d expected.

Stanley didn’t move.

“Stanley.” He repeated, as if a particular intonation would somehow make a difference. A beat, and then Ford was up, a blur of red sweater and grey hair, greyer than it should have been but less so than Stanley’s.

_Numbskull!_ He screamed internally, grabbing Stanley’s wrist, _Of course you could handle a fall like that, you’re a good ten years younger thanks to the blasted portal trip but he --_

He was having some difficulty finding a pulse. That’s what it was. Stanley’s wrist was too thick, Ford’s hand was too swollen. It had to be. Still, he felt his stomach drop to his knees.

“No…No, Stanley, wake up!” He cried out, shaking him roughly, though he knew he shouldn’t. If he could just open his eyes, show him he wasn’t Bill anymore, that he was Stanley Pines, like he’d always been, and if Ford could just beat him a w a k e . . .

His carotid artery gave it away. Ford panicked, then, screaming loud enough to rattle the dispatcher when she answered.

“Sir, sir, you need to calm down. I can’t – Sir!!”

_He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, Bill took him and he’s dead, he’s dead, come back, bring him bACK!!!!!_

“What’s your address, what’s your emergency, what’s your name?”

_Too many questions!! He’s dead, just trace it and get here ten minutes ago, get here, and bring him back now!_

The phone swung discarded, dangling from the wire, forgotten. Ford had started pushing on Stanley’s chest, first one, two, three, give him air, one, two, three, give him air, oh god, Stanley, wake up, wake up, don’t leave me alone, not again, I’m sorry.

And he sat there for hours, for weeks, for an eternity and a half, pumping and breathing into him, though he only grew paler, until somebody ripped him away, and he couldn’t see Stanley anymore. He turned on them immediately, fighting to get back to Stanley, you idiot, don’t you know he’s dying, let us handle it sir, everything’s fine. And then the metallic coppery taste in his teeth, and someone is screaming get a medic, get restraints, someone get something, get me my brother back and then everything was a noisy blur of white and red and blue, with people leaning over him, and he could feel Stanley there, Stanley! If he could only reach out and take his hand again, even if he broke it, it would be okay, but he couldn’t move his arms or legs and there were people blocking him anyhow, wasn’t that grand, and he could still hear Bill laughing, laughing, Oh, Sixer, what a riot you are!~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man okay bear with me, this was heavy but sets the scene. it'll all make sense later.  
> __  
> EDIT 8.30.16 || Fixed the setting where it said the work was complete even though it totally wasn't!!  
> 


	2. White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> recommended reading mix:  
> http://8tracks.com/plaguerats/something-s-wrong

Ford wheezed quietly, spread-eagle and unable to feel his own weight, staring blankly at the whiteness of the ceiling. His thoughts were taking a new form of nonsense: the slow, dredging kind where he was still caught in the fuzzy memory of panic, but could neither mentally keep pace nor physically respond.

_Stan....ley..._

With some effort, Ford tilted his head about a millimeter, trying to chase the fading idea that he needed...something...

Stanley would know what it was. Stanley was here, just beyond his eyes, and Ford didn't question why, or how. Stanley was here, or so he thought, but he couldn't see either way and his neck hurt so he stopped trying and returned to studying the white.

His life slowly faded away. This vast, blank expanse became his entire world. He tried to remember anything beyond smooth, unending nothing, but found it took tremendous amounts of energy he simply didn't possess. He lay there for only a moment before a blinding pinprick of light attacked his left eye. He sucked air through his teeth, unable to blink as something stiff kept his eyelid from closing.

"Heavily sedated...administered...nasty bite."

"He...Stanley?"

"Yeah, weird...kept on..."

"Vitals...unresponsive."

The voices came through a poorly connected headphone jack, half the audio on a disc scratched out and skipped over. It was too much, too much blank space, too much emptiness that needed filling. His eye was shut now but spilling water. If he could move, he'd have curled up on his side. He couldn't, though, so he lay there, splayed out, with the right eye now under assault, unable to blink the burning flash or lingering dark spots away.

_Stanley...your...you're..._

He couldn't think, or didn't want to, but his body didn't care. A deep and permeating dread settled in, replacing his missing sense of weight in the worst way. Burrowing into his stomach, his legs, his head, filling every inch of him 'till he was good as lead and better off dead.

_…gone…._

Something shattered. Something pulled and snapped and ripped him to pieces but his mind couldn't keep up, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and nearly choked him as he continued to stare at the white ceiling, the blank and empty nothingness that seemed to consume him, both inside and out.

He started to tug. To pull. To twist against whatever pinned him down. He moved, almost imperceptibly, and no one noticed, but he soon managed to make the surface beneath him creak, and someone was over him, masked, checking his wrist and his neck. So foreign and immediate, startling and tonal, shadow playing across a deep, rich palette, both in face and in hair, breaking the nothingness apart.

He was still pulling. Arching his back slightly, now, curling a fist, and the person turned to face someone beyond his line of sight, leaving him alone with the void once more.

_...Stanley?_

His tongue was stuck.

_Stanley!_

No.

His tongue was not stuck but it did not work, the metallic tang of blood bubbling up to fill the space the muscle had vacated.

_'Nasty bite'...they said..._

_…I..._

_I...bit...my own tongue?_

Ford found himself growing steadily more aware, more alarmed, with each passing moment. He was able to acknowledge the restraints on his wrists and ankles, the raw sting accompanying every inch of scraping skin in their grip. All too familiar, all too terrifying once again. The nothing did not, in fact, go on forever. Only as far as a resting head titled up, the ceiling eventually meeting a white wall to reveal a very tight space indeed.

Tight. Ay, there's the rub. Everything was tight. The leather cuffs, the room, the lack of any break in pattern, his chest, and, above all, the incessant wailing of a siren, close, too close to his ears. It was all unbelievably...suffocatingly...

_Claustrophobic_

The person in the mask returned, pressing on his chest, ponytail falling over their shoulder and brushing his face.

"Lay down, Mr. Pines."

No, he couldn't. He needed to be up, somewhere, he needed to flex or stretch or scream -- **anything** to break the closing walls. The solidity of his own being left him and he dipped back into noiseless limbo. No siren, no EMT calling that she was about to administer more morphine to Pines A, not even the panicked screech of gurney springs as he wrenched violently against the restraints, nearly toppling the whole contraption and sending the EMT stumbling forward to steady it. He heard and saw nothing, feeling the darkness shrink in on his eyes until the white faded to grey. He was nothing, nothing, the void swallowing him whole -- wait.

There.

Less than a foot away but much farther now than it seems. Pines B with the closed eyes.

_'Vitals'_

He couldn't get free, couldn't get enough leverage to snap the bar, couldn't do anything as the EMT slipped a syringe into the flesh of his upper left arm.

_'Unresponsive'_

It entered with great force. More force, at least, than he was expecting. It rushed up along his veins, bulging, a red wire, and dissipated near his bicep. Immediately the heaviness returned, weighting his body and dulling his mind. A manufactured heaviness, not nearly as gentle, crashing him back into the slow silence that accompanies an absence of thought.

_Dead_

The ceiling quickly refilled his view, vaguely comforting with its utter lack of inconsistency. Ford couldn't help but feel the distinct need to press his forehead to its cool surface, regain his wits, wake up his brain, but it was too late. The crook of his elbow was exposed, punctured, and the whiteness. Oh, the whiteness, how it stretched. He settled, down and back, sinking further and further away from the thump of his own heartbeat.

He found the static of his breathing to be his sole companion, at first labored and uneven but slowly fading to the steady rush of the evening tide, sweeping him out, beyond his eyes.

 

__________________

 

In the liminal, there is nothing. No one is aware that there is nothing. The nothing does not exist. The absence of things does not, in itself, possess a presence. So it begs the question -- how do we know it happened at all?

 

 __________________

 

The grey steadily gained weight until it was heavy enough to press against his eyelids. A thin fabric, most likely bedsheets, rested gently in the grooves of his arms and legs. As he turned his head, groaning against the kink in his neck, there was a distinct rustling crackle that came with the motion. Still bogged down by the fog in his head, over his eyes, he thought that this must be the most fragile-sounding bed he'd ever laid in.

He cracked an eye, met with the sleeping form of -- !!

In a flash, he was upright, clutching his head in one hand as his sense of sight left him, along with the fog.

"Thabmee?!" he exclaimed, feeling his tongue swollen and inert against his teeth. He attempted to disentangle himself from the sheets, finding it difficult as his legs were not yet fully awake.

_No way, no, no, this isn't!_

Ford blinked, gave his head a violent shake, and blinked again. This wasn't...this didn't!

Stanley lay in a chair next to Ford's bed with his head flung back to face the white ceiling, one leg still locked into a sitting position and the other suspended by the heel of his foot against the bed railing. As Ford continued to struggle against the bedding, he knocked Stanley's foot free. It slammed into the floor, dragging his body off the chair with it. He gave a hoarse shout, hitting the tile with a loud thud.

Ford stared wide-eyed as Stanley began to grope blindly for the chair, muttering a steady stream of curses that Ford couldn’t quite make out.

_He can't. He can't be. His pulse. I...is this...am I dead??!!_

His breathing became ragged and he did not dare to tilt his head, did not dare to look again out of the corner of his eye. It couldn't be. It couldn't be but it was. If this was an illusion, delusion, or quite possibly eternity, he didn't care. He didn't want it. It was too soon. Too soon and too raw as he gasped for air, for reason, for sanity and reality, but found all to be missing.

At that moment, the attending nurse arrived. He was probably in his late 40s, going by his hair, and looking tired. Charts and clipboard were held at the ready but forgotten upon seeing Pines A clearly in distress. He rushed to Pines A's aid, irritatedly clambering over Pines B's sprawled body, snapping his fingers and waving his hands in front of his eyes.

"Mr. Pines? Mr. Pines? Mr. Pines, can you hear me?"

Stanford heard, sure, he heard from very far away and didn't care. He shut his eyes, trying to cover his ears. He couldn't think with the nurse shouting like that. Get out of the way! The nurse, seeing that Pines A was at least responsive, turned to Pines B, only just now pulling himself upright.

"What happened?" He questioned somewhat accusationally. Pines B shrugged, incoherently mumbling something about waking sleepwalkers too early. The nurse rolled his eyes and huffed, returning to Stanford. His breathing had calmed slightly, and while he seemed to have acknowledged the nurse's presence, at least audibly, he was jerking his head, resisting his attempts to remove his hands from his ears. Exasperated and quickly becoming concerned, the nurse turned to Pines B.

"Is this common? **"**

Pines B didn't respond, not vocally, but he did make his stumbling way to the side of the bed. He laid a hand on Pines A's elbow, who jerked away, but Pines B was not having it. He grabbed Pines A by both his wrists, yanking them away from his ears, and dragged him up, into a sitting hug. Pines A fought it at first, and the nurse considered stepping in, but eventually he seemed to regain his senses and stopped resisting.

_…_

_…....._

_...Stanley!_

With all the force of a lonely child, Pines A suddenly clamped his arms around Pines B's waist, burying his face into the fabric of the white tank top, and shuddered. Muffled, indiscernible rambling, sobbing, came forth. Pines B stood silently, hands resting on Pines A's shoulders, head downturned and eyes closed, but not from lingering sleep anymore. He began stroking Pines A's hair, gently, and they continued to stay locked in their embrace. The nurse remained perhaps another moment, vacillating between the thought that the two deserved a moment and that Pines A was about three minutes overdue for a vitals scan. Then, secure in the idea that this was going to continue for a while, and with a quick glance at the monitors revealing no startling departure from the norm, he stepped out.

Stanford realized, vaguely, that he had begun to soak through Stanley's shirt with his tears and sniffed, but didn't try to pull away. No, he never wanted to pull away again. He was content to stay right here, forever, pressed against Stanley’s chest and never ever separated from his twin again. To think, oh jeezus, don't even think about thinking, he's here now and, somehow, everything was fine for a moment.

Stanford took a particularly deep breath, craving Stanley’s familiar woodsy smoke smell – and promptly gagged. It was familiar, yes, but also musty and old, overpowering and tinged with something...dangerous. What was it? He felt Stanley's hands still brushing across the crown of his head, and he let out a muffled grunt. Of protest or disgust, it didn't matter because Stanley kept on. Ford let go and leaned back, or attempted to, but only felt himself clamped tighter, closer, and it occurred to Ford that an awful lot of not-breathing had been happening to him lately. Really, a grossly abnormal lack of oxygen was being furthered, here. That couldn't be good.

He knew, of course. He knew that his mind was trying to block something out, desperately ignoring it, but whatever wasn’t adding up was quickly breaking through the barriers.He'd managed to pull his arms in, underneath, pushing against Stanley's chest, and his hands sank deep. Abnormally, uncomfortably deep.

**_And here I thought you missed me!_ **

HE spoke clearly for the first time, nose pressed against Ford’s scalp. Ford could practically see the smirk stretching across his face, could hear the malice dripping from his voice. Bill was taunting him, driving home the point that, by now, did not need to be made. Ford turned his head, a futile attempt to twist out of Stanley’s hold to no avail. The acrid odor swirled around in his head, steadily pushing out all other thoughts as Ford realized, didn’t want to realize but realized all the same.

~~n o  h e a r t b e a t~~

Stanley was humming, singing, into Stanford's hair, holding him so close, so tight, eyes shut until the man finally, eventually went limp in his arms.

**_The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out,_ **

**_the worms play pinochle in my snout~_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 11: 54 goddammit I made the Sunday deadline *collapses*
> 
> this was originally just the halfway/transition point but then it felt like the chapter was way too long (it was almost 9 pages, as opposed to the 4 you all got today). If y'all are cool with super long chapters, though, let me know in the comments for next time, and you can have the other half of the chapter when I wake up!  
> Other than that, yeah...theorize as you will and see ya next week!


	3. His Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fun times with Stanley Pines and some of Ford's clearer memories bleeding through  
> Mild gore starting at "Be careful" and ending with "How does it feel"

_Soos' supply closet had no light of its own, relying entirely on spillover from the hallway. So when the door suddenly slammed shut behind him, Ford was plunged into startling darkness. Heaving a heavy sigh, he began groping blindly along the surface of the door in search of the knob, not quite scared so much as annoyed. This was just the latest in a series of childish shenanigans that his brother seemed intent on pursuing. All morning, Ford had been subjected to cheesy gag after cheesy gag, interspersed with obscene one-liners that only a sixth grader would find clever. It wasn't charming the first time around and it was the **opposite** by the seventeenth._

_Just as well, he couldn't find any break in the surface of the wood. Ford was locked in._

" _Stanley!!" He half-pleaded, half-shouted. He was damn near certain he'd be held ransom for some favor or deal but held fast to the tiny hope that it might have been an accident._

_"Stanley's not here right now, leave a message after the beep!"_

_Ford heard the lilting taunt as if from the end of a long tunnel, slightly distorted and ringing through the small space. He scoffed aloud and took a step back in surprise, arm half raised. He was frozen, torn between which of several curses to spout first. Then he recovered, with all the force the word would imply._

_"Let me out this instant! This is absurd!" He beat furiously on the wood with his open palm, reverting to some childish instinct leftover from elementary school, "For Chrissakes, didn't stupid shenanigans like this die out in our teens?"_

_"Die? Talk about morbid, slick, aren't you nearly there yourself?" It came again, Stanley's voice, no clearer than before, but the manner of speech gave Ford substantial pause. The phrasing of that…those weren't Stanley's words, but they didn't sound rehearsed either. They flowed free and natural, spilling through the door and washing him away to the days before the portal, before he knew, down in the basement, but it couldn't be._

_"Aren't you?" he replied, finally, realizing that Stanley had only spoken of Ford's age even though they were both well past sixty. A small thing, sure, but he latched onto it all the same. He received no reply._

_"Stanley!" He insisted, unable to downplay the rising desperation in his voice. It couldn't be . It couldn't be but it might be and his head kicked into overdrive all the same. It did make sense, when he thought about it. It could, it might, it may. No. He was paranoid, that was it. Spent too many years on the run and couldn't take a joke anymore._

_"Stanley's not here right now." The playful tone from earlier was lost, replaced by a grave statement. Ford swallowed the dread rising in his throat._

_"Stanley…" He started, halted, hesitated. He took a step closer to the door, resting the fingertips of his left hand on the rough surface. "Joke's over. Let me out."_

~~________________________-~~

"Be careful, goddamnit." Stanley growled, with as much ferocity as he could muster. He envisioned a brief flash of a daydream where he clocked Bill a good one, knocking the crummy demon out of his body so he could re-enter. If only. For now, he was stuck in Limbo, hovering next to Bill, unable to intervene as the demon ran amuck in his skin.

Bill didn't reply, only half aware the floating apparition that was Stanley's consciousness. He was much more concerned with ensuring that he wouldn't drop his eye down the sink. A surprisingly difficult task, actually. The reflexes in this thing were terrible, even for a human, and rapidly deteriorating. This time, Bill was not only fighting the physical handicaps that come with an aging fleshbag, but also the rigor mortis fast overtaking the corpse. Honestly, if he weren't hell-bent on destroying at least one pair of Pineses, just to smooth a bruised ego, he'dve cut his losses. For now, he was stuck playing puppeteer, poorly juggling the increasingly obvious problems that arise from maneuvering the dead amongst the living. Not least of which included the eyes. They'd dried out a long time ago, at first only shrinking and giving the body a sunken, tired look. Just recently, however, the skin of the eyelids -- having lost elasticity -- had begun sticking to the surface mid-blink. Bill clumsily removed one eye in the men's bathroom, despite Stanley's protests, in an attempt to rehydrate it by running it under the faucet. It almost worked, having moistened the outer surface but not returned its previous volume.  Brown fluid, partially congealing, leaked from the empty socket and dribbled down in rivulets, dripping slowly from the chin. The eye was tracking mucus across the palms of his hands as he rolled it back and forth. Here, Stanley growled in protest. Bill pinched the semisolid globe gently, resisting the primal urge to pop it down his throat, and began to align it against his empty dripping socket for the third time when he suddenly and spontaneously lost his grip. The eye dropped, Stanley shouted, and Bill lunged forward to slam his hand over the sink drain. It landed in the basin with a soft pop and squish, clear fluid leaking from the dented half-sphere before it rolled lopsidedly down to eventually rest against his flattened hand. Stanley turned red, literally the whole manifestation of his soul and consciousness rippling in fury and anxiety and he floundered audibly for some coherent insult. Bill raised an eyebrow, a mite amused, then rolled his good eye and waved dismissively, apathetically dissipating the smoky vision.

"Give it up, Fez, you're gonna hurt yourself." he tossed out absently, finding it easier to grip the eye with its new flat side anyways. He thumbed it in roughly, such that it popped against the inner wall of the socket and tilted in the empty space created by the dent. The pupil wasn't even visible at that angle.

"Congratulations, you failed." Stanley deadpanned, crossing his arms. Bill frowned. If third time wasn't the charm, he didn't have the patience to stick around.

"Fuck it, we're buying sunglasses." He huffed, disappointed, and shoved two fingers roughly into the socket, effectively turning the eye to mush. The brown fluid mixed with the new, white one and began to fill up the space, still flowing free down his cheek. He scraped it out as quickly as possible and thought, for the first time, that he wished this skinsack was actually functional. He'dve loved the rush of pain that came from the nerves in the bone, crying out against the squared fingernails. Ah well, you win some, you lose some. Eventually, it was mostly empty, with the brown fluid still welling up, but slowly, and began ripping up pieces of paper towel to stuff in the empty socket.

~~________________________-~~

_"How does it feel?"_

_Ford jerked to attention, having settled in for the long haul by wedging himself between the yellow mop cart and the wall. It had been silent for so long, with no response to any call or plea, he thought that Stanley'd left._

_"Feel?" He shot back, confused but still desperately clinging to any break in the solitude._

_"Yeah, Brainiac, feel. Are the walls closing in? Have you lost your sense of time? Do you feel the pressing weight of sudden mortality in your bones?"_

_There was something, there. The sarcasm bordering bitter resentment. Some hint being dropped, some joke being played, to which Ford was not privy._

_"Mortality isn't sudden." he protested, nearly treading the heels of Bill's question in his haste to shut him down._

_He didn't catch Stanley's(Bill's?) laugh until it tumbled out full force, having grown from a twitter to a roar. Nasal, chaotic, and vaguely robotic, it sent shockwaves skittering down Ford's spine, raising goosebumps in its wake. He knew that laugh. Something soft plunked against the door and scraped down until it hit the floor._

_"Oh, Sixer, what a riot you are!"_

~~________________________-~~

Stanley had tried. He had.

**"Tick Tock, kid, time's a-wastin'!"**

Ford jerked, twitched, crumpled into himself even further than before. Stan continued to grab for him, kept reaching through and through and through and through him. His hands in his eyes, a knee in his side, the entirety of his body right through his chest. He screamed, he called, he didn't cry but he certainly took a swing only to be met with that whispered "hwashh" and the disappearance of his fist into the side of Ford's glasses.

~~"Don't do it!"~~

His hands in his head, his eyes in his soul, and the whole of their bodies a world apart.

~~"You came back, you're my brother, you don't need to, Stanford, goddamnit what about the kids, what about mom, us, you, you're supposed to be the smart one, god damn it all to hell don't!!!"~~

**"Deal"**

The walls turned white, peeling, rotting as Stan was flung back, away from Ford. Back into the waiting arms of his own commandeered flesh as the demon cackled and jumped to the identical body. His body ached, stretched in unusual places, as if he'd just woken up, his eyes burning, his teeth feeling too large and sticky, as if, as if, as if Ford wasn't swaying in place, mesmerized by some unseen point in the future, eyes glowing. Stan felt his limbs, displaced and confused for only a moment before tears began to stream down Ford's face, hand still clasped in his. Stan squeezed it, tried to yank Ford back to reality, but his eyes only grew wider, terror overtaking him with a noise of alarm. Stanley let go, shook Ford by the shoulders, shoved him, Wake up, Ford, it's me! Sent him stumbling back into the doorpost where he promptly burst into tears, clutching his hand. Stan saw his mouth move, saw him shaking his head, but heard nothing except a strangled sobbing.

 **"Poindexter!"** he roared, closing the gap, jerking Ford's face up to meet his with both hands. Ford only continued to mutter violently, eyes ablaze with gold and fire, staring at something far beyond Stanley and the Shack and the sky and the universe itself. Then, suddenly, Ford threw a wild swing, knocking Stanley upside the temple and stunning him not from actual pain but from sheer surprise.

It took a moment for the living room to steady, for Stan to realize where Ford had gone.

In the kitchen, screaming like a madman, Stanley's dead, but I'm not dead, Ford, shut up, come back, what are you doing? And the phone swung discarded, dangling from the wire, forgotten. Stan hadn't gotten all of his fingers back, hadn't quite gotten used to the weight of himself yet, and though he barely managed to pry the phone from Ford's hands, he found himself outmatched in the ensuing brawl. Ford still screaming, Stanley still dead, or out cold for the time being, as the paramedics burst through the door and found a man pushing air through his mouth without a sound, hunched over the body of Stanford Pines, crying, sobbing, and some sort of infection in his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo! a little shorter because school and family issues but heyy it's finally up and some of those pesky questions from the last two chapters were (hopefully) answered! See you all next week!


	4. The Filler Before The Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU'RE SQUEAMISH HERE'S PLOT-RELEVANT INFO!! OTHERWISE, ENJOY THE MILD GORE
> 
> Bill commandeered Stanford's body by inducing a heart attack while the man waited for Ford to recover from Bill's mindfuckery in the last chapter. He then took the empty corpse as a new vessel. Unfortunately, he still needs one final object to pull off his master plan: new eyes. Bill brutalizes an intern and stows him in the janitor's closet, taking the eyes for himself before moving on to confront Ford one final time.

Bill sat cross-legged on the white tile of the supply room, blood staining his forearms and hardening in his teeth. He cradled the body of the dark-skinned intern in his lap, gently, giggling quietly to himself as he met their wide-eyed gaze.

Oh, baby, what big eyes you have, the voice in his head reached a ridiculous falsetto and when he saw himself reflected in those deep, precious irises. It was hilarious.

He braced his heels against the shoulders of the corpse so that his hands, still wrapped in the mop of dark, curly hair, rested on the floor while his knees were now raised up to his ears.

Panting with the arousal of the moment to come, Bill jerked in two different directions. The lower half of the corpse slammed into the wall, propelled by his feet and crumpled under the sheer force they exerted upon the collarbone. The neck, already open around the jugular, stretched and snapped, sinew tearing with wet pops and sagging useless at the sides. None of it came completely free, the corpse still jerry-rigged to itself in odd places as the spine lay buried in the pelvis, which was now buried in the abdominals, displaced and bulging from the sternum. If he had been human, he would have reviled at the mess of blood, tissue, and excretion leaking into his shoes. He was not, however, so he didn't.

The smell was something spectacular.

He lifted the thing, peering as best he could at the spot where the spine bone connected to the head bone, and decided that snapping it free would be a final resort. For now, it provided a decently ribbed grip (again, he burst into laughter) and he left it be.

Now, then, to the excavation. First order of business, cracking the safe.

He began digging at the clenched teeth of the intern with his bare hands. There was a slight overbite, a gap between the upper and lower mandibles, and he only needed to wedge one of the puppet's thick, clumsy fingers into the space to pry it open. To his vexation, they didn't fit. Time and again, the blood-slicked digits slid hopelessly against the smooth enamel, jerking past their spot, slicing the knuckles until there was a blank and dripping tic tac toe board on each hand. Normally, he'd be screaming, bored and frustrated and nursing wounded pride, eventually ripping the head clean off to smash it against the wall until nothing remained but a fine china powder from which he would replace the decades old set in the Mindscape. Normally, he didn't need to bother. Normally, he wasn't using the corpse of Stanford Pines.

Not Stanford, he caught himself, the bodies so similar except that extra finger, how did anyone tell the difference? He wondered if there wasn't something to be done about that. It was only a matter of time before they opened the morgue cabinet and found, not a neatly tagged corpse, but a metal slab and a hastily scribbled replacement card. Napkin, it was more like. Or, if someone thought him Stanford, and returned him to the room to find Stanford, sleeping plain as day. So much, so little, wrong and right. Ah well, still a good plan in the end. Rough around the edges and boy did that heart jump to keep beating, even under necromancy, wasn't the old man supposed to be nearer the grave than the summit? Finally gave out, though, all mortal items do in the end. The wallet aptly stowed in the garbage prior to the start of the incantation ensured that no name could be wrought, simply the generic standard until later inspection could reveal the identity and cause. Later. Later was all he needed, slipping out into the hall at night. Frightening one poor patient near to death as he shuffled from room to room. Terribly boring one, that woman, didn’t bat an eye and wandered along mumbling about medications.

Bill began tearing into the soft, pink tissue in which the teeth were embedded, thinking quickly about finding another way in. The gum was stringy, clingy, and difficult to separate from itself, forming clumps of pale meat under his nails and rendering them useless even as he sucked them clean. The blood and spit dampened the keratin, bending the nail back further and further until several snapped and ripped. He had not yet excavated even a single tooth. Enraged, he slammed his fist down, then again, then both, beating on the face in a caricature tantrum until the nose had bent and crumpled and split open along the seam, streaming black and red. He grabbed it, then, tugging at the clump of oily cartilage while bracing the palm of his free hand against the now-flat surface. He tugged and it slipped and he growled something deep. He took the mass, quivering, dripping, and this time he did not resist the primal urge to shove it wholly down his throat. The blood ran hot and thick through the creases, filling up his lungs, the cartilage sticking to the sides of his throat and if he had ever needed to breathe, he would have choked. Instead, he let it sit there, clogging his esophagus, creating a warm pressure to replace the absence in his cheeks.

The teeth, Bill garnering the idea from the nose, were promptly smashed, drawing sticky brown gel from the pads of Bill's fingers. It dripped down the length, filling the empty cavern just below the shattered barrier. There. Leverage now gained, he began to rip the remaining teeth from their roots, gums tearing apart with a soft, sucking bop, until Bill could fit this blasted football of a hand into the space.

Now, then, he had a rather ghastly, inverse hand puppet, with the gaping hole of the mouth sliding down to his wrist. He dug around in the mess of the face until he found the indent of the nasal cavity, forcing in his thumb and gripping the whole side of the face with his fingers against the temple. He missed Sixer's extra finger.

The things he let Bill do to him just to hear he was intelligent, somewhat important, this stupid human grasping at the divine, so easily bent and twisted to another's will, absolutely disgusting and enthralling, and he wouldn't say it, not even to himself, but he missed it. He missed Sixer's extra finger. He missed Sixer's extra everything, shivering, and needy. Oh, Sixer. How preciously inane!~ He thought, maybe, he could get it again. If he could just C R A C K through the plate, the way he cracked this kid's jaw. The lower mandible hung limp, completely detached with splinters of bone poking out near the ear. Bill made quick work of separating it, though this took substantial effort. The body was beginning to realize it was dead, flesh growing more resistant to tampering as time passed.

Tick tock, fellas

Now he turned the head to rest on its matted crown, stood, and brought his heel crashing through the roof of the mouth. One hand inside, one hand out, he halved the skull once more, now with only the face and some concave layer behind the cheekbones. Thinner now, easier to grasp, he began breaking and breaking and breaking until he held the eye sockets, separate and amazing, within his palm. He rolled out the eyes then, prodding them gently, finding them firm.

Again, regretting a lack of nerves, he jammed his thumb into his own eye and it gave a satisfying squish. He emptied the hollow curve before inserting his new eyes, brown and clear, guiding the intern's slender fingers with his own.

Blood began to seep out the door but he did not mind, it was too close to the end. Next time, he might be more careful. Next time, he might go for an outright massacre.

He flung open the door, wide and bright, to greet the sterile halls with his painted hand. Half-jogging up the stairs, he began practicing under his breath in case someone caught him.

"He went that way, he went that way, he went that way, he went "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm editing some of the earlier chapters, so once the next chapter comes out, it'd make a lot more sense to reread the whole...thing....don't hate me, sorry!! I decided I didn't like the ending I was originally planning, so it's gonna take a bit of work, that's all. Thanks for sticking around with all my shenanigans, I have no idea what I'm doing. (i feel like it's a wimpy excuse but this is my first fic ghdgjm,,,)


	5. Checkmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FUCK IM SO SORRY THIS IS SO FUCKING OVERDUE GOD DAMN BLESS ALL OF YOU FOR WAITING SO FUCKIN LONG HOLY HELL I NEVER EXPECTED YOU GUYS ARE THE GREATEST AND IT'S 2AM IM GONNA LIKE COLLAPSE AND SLEEP NOW AHH

Stanford clutched his knees to his chest, trying and failing to conserve some sort of body heat. He could feel it in the hairs of his neck and the corners of his eyes, all his life evaporating into the air. The metal surface pressed evenly against his back, absorbing warmth even through the thick winter trenchcoat and returning none. Strangely, his teeth did not chatter. Or if they did, the sensation blended seamlessly into the violent trembling of his body and he did not register it. 

Wind whipped across the smoke-painted valley, all flat stubby grass and devoid of any man-made structures -- save the eviscerated remains of the gate. 

The gate, so much larger here, and completely derelict. It rose like a skyscraper against his huddled form, some great hulking beast cut down in old age. Yes, ancient, and the implications of that sent shudders rippling through him once again. 

The gate was archaic, a fossil, a relic of a forgotten time. His portal was...not. 

Any faintly glimmering spider's thread snapped along with his ankle, a silent and irrevocable expression of his utter obsolescence. Ford was not unique or entertaining or even chosen on display of intellectual merit but, rather, was plucked at random from the thousands of hundreds of gullible outcasts yearning to leave a mark on their individual world. He was chosen because he was stupid. The smartest idiot alive at the time, entirely a stroke of chance and luck, and it churned his stomach to think of how far in he'd been roped. He buried his head in the space between his elbows, still shaking, still rocking, and letting out the occasional, low moan. What he moaned for, he could not say. His ankle, perhaps, as it hurt like the dickens. His situation, possibly, as it seemed there was no going back or ahead. The thought that Bill hadn't meant a single syllable, that every exhilarating touch had been empty and his entire partnership had been a fabricated ruse, mostly. His brother, definitely, though the pain and shock were still beyond words and always would be. 

What was the deal, Ford? What was really worth all this pain? 

The portal entrance (exit? return?) opened into a wide, wide emptiness. A maw teeming with spite and questions. 

Why here? Why this, why crying? 

What now? 

What was that deal, why did it matter? 

Stanley! 

Ford sprinted the distance he should have kept, Stanley! I have to get back! Plunging desperately into the dark but finding no purchase, Ford finds himself immersed in thick, inky liquid. He opens his mouth in shock, a warm copper tang invading immediately. He flails desperately, blood slicking his body, chest, bleeding into his lungs and tinting his eyes. 

Stanley? Thick, it was too thick and warm and Ford couldn't tell what he felt and what he imagined. There was nothing, he could not see the way out, the way deeper, the way anywhere. Everything was blood. 

  


Stanford let out a sharp cry, jolting upright. His heart pounded desperately against his ribcage. Bill's morbid lullaby still ringing in his ears, he clutched one hand to his chest. As if that would somehow steady the wild beating. Harsh fluorescents washed over him. He squinted as it bounced off the unfamiliar white walls. No, not unfamiliar. The place, the walls, the void from his dreams, they all elicted that sense of quiet impermeable panic. 

Stanley? 

Stanley was dead. 

Stanley was...? Not? 

It was impossible to tell what had been dream and what had been reality, and the sterile room offered no indication towards either. 

The heaviness of the empty chair by his bed begged for his undying attention. 

The heaviness of the dripping IV in the back of his hand begged for mercy. 

________________________ 

  


J o h n D o e 

A g e : 62 (e s t i m a t e) 

N o t e s : C a r d i a c a r r e s t. U n a b l e t o r e s s u c i t a t e 

  


________________________ 

Stanford continued to blink and his brother continued to exist, or continued to not exist, or continued to exist independently of Ford's awareness someplace he could not reach while this projection of his sleeping consciousness (or hallucination) sat before him. 

Stanley's voice was right. His hair was right. The weight dragging down his shoulders when he thought nobody was looking was right. He'd even removed the eye patch when asked, revealing that both eyes were as brown as brown could be. No Bill. 

Then why did Ford remember Stanley dead? Could he trust the man before him? Could he trust his own mind? 

**Earth to Sixer!** , Stanley spoke, drawing his brother's attention. 

Ford immediately dropped all pretenses. 

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" 

**I am.**

"How do I _know?"_

Stanley shifted again, and Ford grew suspicious of that bouncing leg. 

**I'm telling you, that's how.**

The silences spoke louder than either man ever could, all suspicion and nerves. 

What did he want? Frankly Ford wasn't sure. Even a dream could pass for waking consciousness; he'd never notice ana blatant absurdity until after he woke. Bill was out of the question, unless he wasn't, and illusions could only go so far before breaking. The same could unfortunately be said for humans. Ford was so hopelessly, poignantly lost. As if reading his mind, Stanley's brow furrowed deeper with each passing moment sans reply. 

_Tell me I'm wrong_ , Ford silently begged, _Tell me I slipped up, tell me I'm old, tell me you forgive me, you're sorry, you don't hate me, tell me. It hurts to look at you, it burns when you stare, don't leave, stop me, say something, they think I'm crazy, they want, I can't, you wouldn't, Oh God Stanley, don't call me paranoid, you're dead --_

**Cut it, Sixer! Look me in the eye and tell me I'm not me!** Stanley was livid, up against the railing, leaning into Ford's face and yelling. 

_It can't be you, something isn't right, not a molecule out of place, just calm down, put me down, Oh God Stanley, if it's not you I can't find it, everything is right, am I wrong, I was, you were, it's both of us, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's you, isn't it, it's you Oh God Stanley, I'm losing my mind, not a molecule not a shadow not a hair out of place, it was all a bad dream and here we are again, and_

**_Everything's alright_**

**Let's start over**

Start? 

**Make you a deal**

The past fifty years? 

**Take my hand. Tabula Rasa?**

Nothing would ever be better 

Ford takes his brother's hand in his own, years of history folding into a singular gap between the thumb and palm, and it's going, going, gone! Outta here, see ya never, game set and match no matter how loudly Stanley screams and reaches through and through and through Ford, who realizes too late mid-shake that his twin's hand is a PERFECT fit. Ford jerks back at the elbow as a finger much too dark to be either brother's falls with a sick _thwompf_ into his lap. Blood pools in the folds of the bedding, thick and brown and oozing slowly. 

Ford struggles to rationalize the image with the Stanley who is grinning too wide for his face. 

**Congrats, Fordsy, ya just signed your own damn Death Certificate!**

Bill's laugh ricochets off the walls, hig-pitched, nasal, a bit robotic, assaulting Ford's ears as he notices, for the first time, that Stanley is wearing someone else's clothes. They don't fit. 

The finger is too dark, too dark, and Stanley is falling apart. His mouth droops around the teeth, his skin withers and molds and rots before his eyes and Ford screams but nothing comes out. 

**Aw, too bad. I was just getting started. Hey, Sixer, pal, buddy, mind sharin' that empty head a-yours?**

Ford's lungs do not remember air. 

Stanley. Bill? He stands heavily supported by the railing, which sinks deep, too deep, into putrefying flesh. 

**~~~ The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinnochle in this snout ~~~**

Ford retches, stringy yellow bile dribbling over the slowly soaking blood. 

_Get away. Get away get away get away._

"What..." He gasps out, fighting to move his tongue now miraculously healed, "Deal?" 

A dark shadow flickers behind Stanley's eyes. 

**Is that a request or an inquiry?**

Ford glares him down until he shrugs. 

**You're the one who wasn't paying attention.**

Pieces of Stanley are falling, molting onto Stanford. Stanford's body does not remember movement. Stanford's mind is broken beyond repair. Stanley's (Bill's?) face falls with the lack of reaction and poison laces his tone. 

**You asked for a redo, idiot. It's null once this skinsack dries up. I'm free.**

Ford lets out a sharp laugh, fully aware that Bill could never make it beyond the town border. And without a vessel, he'd be powerless, to boot. The demon had played himself. Bill's (Stanley's?) mood sours as he eyes Ford warily, then he seems to remember something. 

**Oh, wait, I forgot. New reset, clean slate.**

_Reset?_

Stanley (Bill?) manages to maneuver back to the chair. He is draining, falling, sagging in every place imaginable. His mouth hardly moves, his eyes do not blink, his chest remains static. 

**I can't even gloat properly. It'll all go over your head, won't it? Well, fuck you, Stanford Pines, I'm not explaining a damn thing!** Ford is taken aback by how tired and weak the voice sounds, despite the enthusiasm behind the statement. **I swear, it's gotta be fryin' your brain by now, ain't it? Only seeing the same three rooms over and over? Do you feel it? The sudden awareness of your own mortality in the face of a blank slate?**

Ford is uneasy, aware there is a joke being played to which he is not privy. Bill cackles, grabbing the lamp from the end table and removing the shade. He taps gently on the bulb, making grave and intentional eye contact with Ford. 

**You were so quick to kill him the first time, Fordsy. I admit, even I was surprised. I expected some sort of hesitation, at least a flicker of humanity, but I knew I always liked you for a reason. A bona fide Casca the second I turned my back!**

 **Of course, you couldn't stop at murder, oh no, you just _had_ to have your cake and eat it, too. Bring him back, eh? Just a simple deal, couldn't hurt a fly, could it? You should've read the damn fine print. No one crosses me twice and gets away with it, not even you, my dear, lovely Stanford Pines.**

Stanford's head is reeling with the implications as Bill (definitely Bill) crushes the light in Stanley's fist with a _pop_. He begins removing the shards from his hand, chuckling. 

**You know, you really made me work for it, too. All the times you thought you were soooo clever, turning the "redo" into a "reset." Had to come up with the whole tabula rasa bit eventually. Even when I _offered_ you a reset, when you really should've wised up and just let him DIE, you still took the damn offer. Guess the big lug really meant somethin' to ya, huh?**

Dread turns to horror the longer Stanford dissects the meaning of Bill's monologue. Bill's eyes flash with something dangerous. 

**Meant enough to hand over that equation, anyway!**

Ford's heart leaps into his throat as Bill (Bill!) buries the broken glass in Stanley's carotid artery, giggling uncontrollably. Ford jerks forward, making a wild swing at Bill, completely unable to form a coherent thought in a blind panic. Security bursts in, having followed the obvious trail of blood from the basement, to find a smashed lamp, the dead intern's missing finger, and a second victim all in the room of Stanford Pines -- already declared unstable and officially caught red-handed in a double-homicide. 

The victim lets out a final shriek, **Checkmate, Brainiac!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is revealed and wrapped up with a nice little bow, if you're still confused you can leave a comment i'll get to it asap (or leave one anyways idk i always LOVe feedback). Thanks again for bein' such saints about waiting, it's been a wild ride from start to finish, hope the finale was worth it!!


End file.
